Chapter 17

Marianne tapped her fingers against her lips, looking at the two gowns Miss Barclay had set out for her that evening. There were only two nights left of the Hindborough hunting party, and despite Anthony's warnings to keep a low profile, Marianne wanted the guests to remember her well.

"I think purple better suits the occasion," Marianne said over her shoulder while Miss Barclay prepared the toilette table for them. "It was always my mother's favourite colour, and I know the duchess prefers purple too."

She joined Miss Barclay, leaning on the chair before the vanity table. Miss Barclay had laid out a selection of jewellery for the evening. Marianne thumbed a string of pearls, wondering whether her mother would have been proud or horrified to see her draped in so much finery so quickly.

"But my hair should be styled simply," Marianne added, taking her seat. "I don't want the others to think I'm getting too high in the instep. I've already been criticized once today for my unflagging confidence."

Miss Barclay nodded, beginning her work on Marianne's hair. She brushed through the ends, detangling her natural waves until they fell in soft sheets down her shoulders. Her fingers ran through the hair above Marianne's ears, drawing the front of her hair back into the start of a chignon.

"You will only need to capture the attention of one gentleman tonight," Miss Barclay said, grabbing a hairpin and holding it between her teeth. "Lord Foxburn's arrival was a welcome turn of events."

"I'm not sure the earl feels that way. He is merely fulfilling his duty to me." Marianne shrugged, reaching for a jewelled hairpin and playing with the gems. "But I'm glad, nonetheless. It feels like we're actually making some progress."

"My Lady, I think you underestimate the progress you have been making already." Miss Barclay shoved the pin into Marianne's hair and reached for another. Her styling was painless, effortless. "You have made a number of acquaintances—both of the feminine and male varieties. And I have heard none of the other maids speak ill of you. For a fact, I believe that your mere existence has instilled a great many of them with hope."

"I have done nothing to deserve their praise," Marianne argued, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. "It's not like I earned this rise in station. I just happened to be born to the right aristocratic rebel."

Miss Barclay looked unconvinced in the looking glass. Her face was gently alight by the flame of the candles. The lady's maid always looked put together, but that evening, her ringlets were crisper, and she seemed to be wearing rouge on her cheeks and lips. Marianne wondered what had caused the change.

"Say what you will, but you have done Her Grace proud." Miss Barclay rarely displayed emotion, but the ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. "I have a feeling there will be even more to celebrate once the house party is over. Lord Foxburn's arrival could spell more than just the beginning of an acquaintance for you."

A familiar, uneasy feeling stirred in Marianne's gut. Were all the ton and their attendants so obsessed with marriage? Marianne supposed she had done a great deal of thinking about potential matches herself and quickly corrected her hypocrisy.

"He would be wrong to try for anything more," she argued, setting the pin down so she could focus on her breathing. "We barely know each other. And I don't relish the thought of marrying a man to whom I'm already related. I want to build more connections, not just intensify the ones I have."

"The earl will not hold the same scruples about you, I'm afraid. In his eyes, I'm sure a marriage between you would tie up your affairs nicely rather than creating more contestants for the Foxburn title by having you marry elsewhere." Miss Barclay's words were doing little to alleviate Marianne's nausea. "And if he were to propose—"

"Heavens, Miss Barclay!" Marianne jolted forward, accidentally ripping the woman's hands out of her hair. The chignon came undone around her neck. "I don't think we need to be worried about a proposal just yet. We have only met twice, and I haven't exactly encouraged marital feelings in him. Quite the opposite."

"Marital feelings aside, that is more than enough time to assess your looks and character. I am merely trying to prepare you for the eventuality that Lord Foxburn will look to find a wife in you. Did his sister not imply as much when you first met? Did you not say as much to me?"

Marianne cursed herself for being so open with Frida during their nightly routine. She shook her head regardless, retrieving the pin hanging out of her hair and handing it to Miss Barclay.

"Well, then, I suppose I must make haste to attract the attention of another." She chewed the inside of her mouth, thinking. "Forget the simple chignon for tonight. I need to go out with a bang."

Miss Barclay was nothing if not an amenable servant. Within a matter of fifteen minutes, she had equipped Marianne with a hairstyle and outfit that would knock even her most outspoken critics off their feet.

She gave a small twirl in the looking glass, testing the durability of her hairstyle. Marianne intended to dance—and dance a lot—to avoid giving Gideon the wrong impression. As for whom she would be dancing with, she hoped the duke could spare her one turn about the room at least.

Smiling until her cheeks hurt, she squeezed Miss Barclay's shoulder and expressed her thanks. She grabbed her fan and then checked the time on the clock by the wardrobe.

"I'm already running late, so I will have to kiss your feet in thanks later," she joked, dashing towards the door. "I only hope—"

Her words were cut off by the wobbling of the doorknob. Marianne hopped back out of fright, wondering who would be trying to get in from the outside.

"Are you in there?" came a familiar voice.

Marianna glanced at Miss Barclay, who had blanched a shocking shade of white like she was worried an intruder was trying to break in.

"I think that's only Patrick," Marianne reassured her. She approached the door and unlocked it, swinging the door open wide. "And I was right."

In the hall, Patrick stared at Marianne, mouth agape. That was precisely the reaction she had been looking for, even if Patrick looked more terrified than impressed. He cleared his throat and looked at her from head to toe.

"Goodness, you are … here." He stumbled over his words, blinking as he peered into the room. "But of course, I knew you would be here. I came to get you. Why else would I have come? The guests are heading inside now. I didn't want you to be late."

Not for the first time, Marianne thought Patrick was a strange fellow. She laughed off his curious reaction and stepped out to join him.

"Let me get that," Patrick said, reaching for the door to close it. He seemed to linger a moment more than necessary, leaving Marianne to ponder why.

He escorted her downstairs at a dangerous speed, like he couldn't put enough distance between himself and Marianne's room. They took the stairs two by two, and Marianne needed to stop to catch her breath by the time they reached the ballroom, her stays cutting into her.

They had danced almost every evening after dinner since the party had begun. But there was something different in the air that night, as though the guests knew that time was running out, and they needed to make the last moments at Hagram Park count.

The ballroom was similar to the grand hall, with stone walls and floors and wooden beams running across the ceiling. Exquisite chandeliers hung over the dance floor, illuminating the room with a warm, orange glow. A buffet had been set up in the parlour next door, and a few guests were prowling the edge of the room with plates of finger food or goblets of iced drinks.

The party that evening extended well beyond those two rooms. Guests had been invited to explore Lord Hindborough's gallery and the Hagram gardens and encouraged to socialize as much as possible before the evening was done. Some of them would be setting off in the morning—and the planned activities for the following evening would be much tamer by comparison.

"One hardly knows where to start," Patrick murmured beside her, tapping Marianne's forearm. "Shall I take you to the duke or the earl?"

Pointing them out to her, Patrick designated Anthony and Gideon in turn. They were positioned on opposite sides of the room, both entrenched in mixed groups. This was one lesson in etiquette that couldn't be taught. Would she show favouritism to one or the other by approaching them first?

Before she could make up her mind, Eliana weaved through the guests encircling the dance floor and joined Anthony. She wore a bright red gown, looking resplendent beside Anthony, who sported a dark navy jacket and stark white cravat. Marianne prickled with hot jealousy, looking away.

"The duke seems occupied," she said, her tone clipped. "Let us see how Lord Foxburn is getting on instead."

To her surprise, the usually cold Earl of Foxburn was laughing and smiling within his own group of friends. The near-empty glass of punch in his hand might have had something to do with his newfound confidence. Marianne was glad for him either way. Because even though she dreaded the thought of falsely encouraging Gideon, she still wanted him to be happy.

"Here she is now," he exclaimed when she approached on the arm of Patrick. "And with Mr Bowers, no less. I suspect your ears were burning. We were just discussing your arrival in Norfolk, Lady Marianne."

"As is everyone else, I imagine," one of the guests said, smiling at Gideon. She thought he bore a resemblance to her new friend, Lady Jane, and determined he must have been her father.

"There has not been a story to get tongues wagging in these parts for years. Not since your dear father ran off with that scullery girl. Have you planned to take Lady Marianne to Saltsman, My Lord? There aren't half a lot of churches you could visit in Bury St. Edmunds."

"More than in Norwich? I am certain we will find other things to entertain her," Gideon joked, delighting his audience.

He was in his element, transformed. Marianne glanced at Patrick. Maybe this was Gideon's shadow—pompous and sycophantic.

"But if you must know, I extended the offer to Lady Marianne this morning to visit Saltsman House. There is no rush. All things in good time, Carlston." Gideon nodded at her. "We have to survive the night first."

"You're still in Suffolk?" another guest enquired, fanning herself. "Why, surely you should have taken up Hart Green where the old Earl of Foxburn used to live. Though perhaps …" She stopped the rhythmic whipping of her fan and looked at Marianne. "A house as large as that would require more than a man at its helm. So yes, all things in good time. Though one must not wait forever, lest opportunities slip us by."

Was there some sort of aristocratic cabal Marianne was not aware of? In which they decided the fates of young women without consulting them first? She blinked in shock. It seemed all of Gideon's friends had the same thing on their minds. Marianne wished he would go again almost as quickly as he had come.

"Do you always discuss such boring matters as these? Visits to churches and old houses?" Patrick intervened, shaking his head. "Last night, Carlston had all but wagered Baron Warton to perform a headstand. You can come up with better than this. I'll perform the ruddy headstand if it will liven up this conversation."

Marianne breathed a sigh of relief, which went unnoticed under the proceeding ripple of laughter. She thanked Patrick with a look, her eyes smarting with tears at his kindness.

"There will be no need for acrobatics yet," Lord Carlston said, nodding at someone behind Marianne. "Good evening, Your Grace."

Marianne turned on her heel, finding Anthony standing directly behind her. He didn't dignify her with a look, addressing the rest of the group instead.

"The dancing will begin soon, and I have come to collect my partner." He extended his arm to Marianne. "Unless she has changed her mind …"

She couldn't have changed what she hadn't made up to start with. She turned her empty dance card around in case someone saw that Anthony was lying. Gulping, she took his arm and said her goodbyes to Gideon and the rest, half convinced she was going mad.

"You did not ask me to dance," she whispered when Anthony brought her to the edge of the dance floor. "We haven't spoken since this morning."

He straightened the cuffs of his jacket. "Fair point. I am asking you now."

"Not asking but demanding." She smacked his hand away from his cuff, forcing him to look at her. "What was all that about?"

"You should have come to me first," he said, a note of disapproval in his voice. "Patrick and I comprise your party—not Lord Foxburn. It was rude of you not to greet me as you entered the room. I had to come and correct your mistake. You can thank me later."

"I rather think you're making these rules up as you go," Marianne huffed. "I don't want to dance. I want to socialize. Just not with them," she looked back at Gideon, "not when they're acting like that."

Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose. Marianne wasn't going to apologize for being difficult when he was being more difficult than she was. He scanned the room, twisting and turning.

"Then come along quickly before someone stops us," he said, heading towards the archway that led to the art gallery.

Marianne didn't look back as she left, worried she would catch an errant glance and have either Gideon or Eliana chasing after them with pitchforks. She marched after Anthony, who by that point had disappeared from her sight, arriving in the gallery alone.

She released her skirts where they were balled in her fists. The tension eased from her body as she glanced around the room. It was much quieter in the gallery. Only a few people had left the party proper to come and study the artwork on display.

Marianne had only heard the gallery described to her, but the descriptions of the other guests didn't do the place justice. She had read about the museums in London, and she had to guess that not even Montagu House had a collection as impressive as Lord Hindborough's.

The gallery was a labyrinth, with multiple rooms connected by arches and short hallways. She squinted at the golden plague beneath the painting nearest to her.

"The Peasant Dance," came Anthony's voice from behind her. A shiver ran down Marianne's spine. "Painted by Pieter Brugel the Elder. I shall not point out the vulgar irony of a marquess displaying a piece like that while a plague of lords gorge themselves silly next door."

Marianna peered up at him. His face was fixed in concentration like it had been when he had sketched her on the boat. His love for art was obvious, even as he criticized the marquess' taste in décor. She liked seeing him like this. He belonged among paintings.

"Warren has always favoured English and Flemish artists," Anthony explained, leaning in for a closer look. "This one has only recently been acquired."

"How can you tell?" Marianne asked.

"Because up until two months ago, it had been stolen by Bonaparte. It was returned amid a larger collection of paintings after Waterloo—or so I read in the papers. They were divided among willing curators in the ton. Who knows where it will finish up in the end? But I think there is certainly a more fitting place for it than here at Hagram Park. It should rightfully go back to Brussels … You should not tell Warren I said that."

"Your secret is safe with me. I don't have a horse in the race. I'm not even sure I like it," Marianne admitted. "Something about it is unsettling … Maybe the colours … The subtle violence …"

"There's an art critic in you yet." She could hear his smile, even when she couldn't see him. "I'll show you some paintings that will be more to your taste. Come with me."

Marianne followed him into another room with even fewer visitors than the last. Anthony paused at the entrance, allowing Marianne to lead their tour. She examined the paintings in order. Most of them were landscapes of the countryside or seascapes, though she didn't recognize any of the depicted places.

"They're beautiful," she murmured, staring up at a painting titled ‘Folk Party Near a Mill'. "Paolo Alboni," she read aloud. "I've never heard of this painter."

"He's not among the most celebrated Italian artists, to be sure. But he's a favourite of mine. I visited the school where he trained in Bologna." Anthony clasped his hands behind his back. "This wing is dedicated to Mediterranean art—or Mediterranean adjacent. As you can well imagine, this collection is my favourite. I've had a penchant for Southern European art since I was old enough to hold a pencil."

She was somewhat out of her depth, but Marianne didn't want to dissuade him from talking more about art when he was so passionate about it. They drifted to the next painting.

The canvas was much larger, drawing Marianne in immediately. It looked like it had been painted from the rooftop of a building in an Italian city. The roofs glinted copper, and Marianne swore she could feel a warm breeze on her shoulders. The painting was hazy, like a summer dream.

"Do you like it?" Anthony asked.

"Very much so …" Marianne took a step back, taking in the details. A rosy tint to the piece made her think of young infatuations, the likes of which she had only read about in stories. "Who painted this one?"

Anthony was quiet for a moment. When Marianne turned to him, he gave a wistful smile.

"A young, arrogant painter who had no business using a canvas so large." He laughed under his breath. "It was me. I worked on it one summer in Bologna. Warren purchased it from me when I was eighteen. It was my first sale. Actually, it was my only sale."

Marianne's chest constricted. Gazing at Anthony's work was like seeing through his eyes. She loved the feeling of it, surprised by the moment's intimacy. She pictured him at work, forming her own painting of him in her mind's eye. Anthony, at eighteen years old, working at an easel on an Italian rooftop, the sun in his hair, paint marring his lovely hands, brow furrowed as he focused, recording everything he saw and felt.

"You're so …" She pressed a hand against her chest, struggling to find the right words. "It's magnificent."

He looked away, bashful. "It's amateurish."

"You are your own worst critic." Marianne gazed up again at his painting. "It makes me feel … I mean, it's completely transportive. Even if it is amateurish, maybe that's a good thing. I feel so vulnerable and alive just looking at it." She laughed. "Now I'm doubly cross with you for not letting me see that sketch. I want to see all of your paintings. Will you not show me your studio when we go home to Moorhaven?"

Anthony's smile fell, and Marianne froze in response. She hadn't meant to use that word: home. It was not her home. It was Anthony's. Marianne belonged … Well, frankly, Marianne didn't know where she belonged.

"Or … another time …" She pressed her eyes shut, tingling with nerves. "I shouldn't—"

"I can show you," Anthony interrupted. "I would like to. There isn't much to see, but when we go home … Yes, I can show you."

"Thank you." Marianne nodded, fighting against her smile as she returned her gaze to the painting. "We have to survive the night first," she whispered, repeating Gideon's words.

She felt more than saw the room empty. The last visitor slipped through the archway, leaving Marianne and Anthony alone as they looked up at his painting of Bologna. She couldn't form a coherent thought, merely pretending to analyze his work. Her mind raced with thoughts of what the rest of the evening would bring. She wished she could stay in the gallery with Anthony forever. Things were so easy when it was just the two of them.

"Survive?" Anthony whispered quietly, as though Marianne hadn't been meant to hear. "What awaits you out there that makes you fear for your life?"

"Many things," she replied—things out there that were right here, standing beside her. "I thought getting to know my family would make me happy. But since Gideon arrived this morning, I have a dreadful feeling of walking into a trap. I don't even know his middle name, yet every time he has been brought up in conversation, the topic of marriage seems to arise as well. He has already invited me to live with him. Is that normal, or have I done something wrong?"

"It's not you. The circumstances are to blame," Anthony said. "He is a single man, and you are now partly his charge. To say nothing of the fact that you are of marriageable age—to say nothing of your other qualities too, of which there are many."

Marianne blushed, hiding her face from him as he continued, "It is only natural for there to be some speculation about your future. It would be a highly convenient marriage for all involved."

She scoffed. "Convenience is largely overrated."

"If you are decided against convenience, then you must decide what else you want." Anthony turned to face her, his blue eyes boring into hers. "What do you want?"

"You've asked me that before." She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "Was my last answer not satisfactory, Your Grace?"

Anthony wasn't smiling back. He had never looked so serious. What had Marianne said to worry him? She licked her lips, and his gaze fell to her mouth.

One look and she was devastated. Her breath caught in her throat, nerve ends on fire as he drew a step closer. What was he doing, and why? She couldn't move, terrified and exhilarated, hoping he would do something, anything, to give her an answer and put her out of her misery.

"Highly unsatisfactory," he whispered.

He was so close, she could smell the punch on his breath, could feel it ghost along her neck. She was on fire with feelings she couldn't name, let alone understand. He was still staring—never stopped staring. A second felt like a lifetime. His lips were slightly parted, begging to be met by hers. This couldn't have been proper.

But propriety be damned.

Finally, she understood, almost wishing she didn't. She tiptoed forward an inch, and Anthony mirrored her. His hand cupped her face, thumb catching her below the jaw, angling her just how he liked her, like they were back on that boat where no one could see them. She hadn't realized until then how much she had longed to be touched by him. Marianne gasped as he leaned closer, and then closer …

And then, he stopped.

She pressed her face into his palm, waiting for a kiss that didn't come. Her eyes flashed open to find Anthony looking not at her but over her. She turned to search for the source of his shock. But she saw only paintings.

"The Velasquez," Anthony murmured, voice broken, letting his hand fall from her face. "He had it the whole time …"

"What?" Marianne rasped. "Anthony, what's wrong?"

His face contorted with rage. She grabbed the lapels of his coat, pleading with him to tell her what he had seen.

She saw something, too. Not behind them. But in front of them, in the archway. Her hands fell to her sides, and she tried to step back, but the damage was done.

She had walked into a trap, but Gideon had not set it.

It had been set by Eliana.